


The Test

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Maurice - E. M. Forster
Genre: Backstory, Canon LGBTQ Character, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:45:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirteen-year-old Clive contemplates his burdens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Test

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2009 round of lgbt_fest on LJ. My thanks to Athousandwinds for beta-reading; all remaining errors are mine.

When Clive came home for Christmas, his mother found him rather subdued.

"Do you take proper care of yourself, dear?" she would ask. "Do you get enough sleep? Do they feed you properly?" And to every question he would nod absent-mindedly and reply, "Yes, mother," so as to calm any worries she might be harbouring. In truth, he hardly gave such worldly matters as food or sleep any thought; they were, when it came down to it, safe for his body to seek.

Now, having bid his mother and sister good-night in order to retreat to his room, he did not feel tired, and his belly was uncomfortably heavy with Christmas dinner. The one thing he did crave right now was silence, and so he stood by the window, gazing out at the large fields of Penge, which were cloaked by the December night.

Nothing felt right.

Resting his elbows on the window sill, Clive sighed, wondering why he, of all, should be burdened with such riddles to ponder.

The conversation he'd heard on the train on his way home still refused to leave him be: the words had jumped out at him, cutting into his too-receptive ears like glass the moment he realised what -- or rather, whom -- the two strangers had been talking about, and why. Death was yet too abstract for him to fathom; loss wasn't. He knew, as soon as he heard the news mentioned casually by one of the strangers, who then passed onto other matters just as casually, that something was irretrievably gone. He'd felt very alone since then.

Truth be told, he'd felt increasingly lonely these last few months, as well as irritable and restless in a way which was rather new to him. Perhaps it had everything to do with going away, getting used to a new life. Perhaps it was something that would pass in time -- at least, that's what he'd told himself, his sharp, thirteen-year-old intellect refusing to give in to hopelessness.

A well-established institution, the school he attended had an excellent reputation. Clive enjoyed the classes -- he had always been fond of learning -- and he did not fall victim to the homesickness which seemed to haunt so many of the others; yet he kept count of the months and weeks, with a diligence uncommon even for him. It just became too much, sometimes.

Certain aspects of school life he found unbearable, even if, so far, they hadn't been anything but rumours to him (and, Clive thought, shivering, thank God for that). His fagging duties hadn't demanded much of him, but the things that were whispered behind some of the others' backs... Clive wasn't sure what disgusted him most: that such things could happen to his defenceless peers, or that something had changed after he'd first heard about it, something in _him_ , as if his eyes were forced open and he could no longer close them at will. He wasn't even sure what it was, only that it had to do with his senses, which seemed sharper -- all of a sudden, he'd started to notice those around him in a way he couldn't remember having done before.

There was Johnson, a broad-shouldered fourth-former who was famous for his skills on the rugby field; there was Gillingham, pale and handsome, with dark, piercing eyes. There was Willoughby, in his own form, whose cheerful laughter always seemed to be within earshot, and whose eyes always seemed to light up whenever Clive looked his way.

There they were, all of them unique and fascinating; yet there was no reason for him to notice them -- none at all. No reason to pay any attention beyond what was natural when one discovered admirable qualities in one's friends. No reason why the thought of Willoughby's smile should haunt him now, as he stood in his own bedroom, in the house which would one day be his, and his alone.

No reason at all, other than this: it must be a test.

Yes, Clive thought, turning from the window and walking to sit on his bed. Yes, that was it, surely -- these thoughts were there to confuse him, to test his intellect, his capacity of self-control. For he assumed it was something which would pass eventually, like measles; still, he had found it very difficult so far. Maybe his faith wasn't strong enough?

And these last days, after he'd heard that the writer was dead... Due to his own vices, no doubt. Even if such things weren't discussed in polite company, Clive had picked up enough to know of the shocking scandal some years back. It had disgusted him when he first found out about it; yet he found it difficult to forget. Of course, it would be a shock to anyone, realising just how low some people could fall. There was no reason why Clive should care, apart from that.

His hands curled around the bedspread. That writer, Wilde, had been a degenerate, a pervert. Clive was young and healthy. They had absolutely nothing in common.

It was absurd, really, that he should keep tormenting himself, on this night of all nights, when the Lord had come to Earth to free man of his burdens. Christmas meant love, from his family and from his Church; it was the least he could do to calmly accept the test to which he was put. Patience was a virtue, and he would persevere.

Resolutely, he stood; then knelt by the bed, resting his head against his folded hands. "Dear Father," he whispered, proceeding with his prayer, the regular incantation which every evening served to remind him of what was right.

When he was done, he blew out the candle and crept between the cold sheets, closing his eyes, determined that no thoughts, neither of the sin of Sodom nor that of Onan, should cross his mind. Eventually, tiredness began to weigh his body down, and he relaxed, blurred images of smiling angels following him into sleep.


End file.
